


The Beyond

by tousled_bird



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Death!Reader, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Torture, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Rating May Change, Reader-Insert, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-08 14:53:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10389267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tousled_bird/pseuds/tousled_bird
Summary: It is during his time as POW after Azzano when James Buchanan Barnes sees you for the first time. To say that he is in a bad shape, weak from torture and hunger, is a great understatement. He is dying. Which brings you to his side.





	1. Don't Fear The Reaper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title borrowed from [Don't Fear The Reaper](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D0AJTXv8T-Y) by The Spiritual Machines.

It is during his time as POW after Azzano when James Buchanan Barnes sees you for the first time. To say that he is in a bad shape, weak from torture and hunger, is a great understatement. He is dying. Which brings you to his side.

You lingered for quite a long time already, collecting the souls of the men who died. A lot of people died here. And a lot more will die. You feel it.

You ease the soul of a soldier from his broken body. Some guards have beaten him up and left him to die in a dark corner. His pained face softens as you free his soul.

“Am I dead?” he asks, a childlike wonder written in his soul’s ephemeral form as he looks up to you.

“Yes.” Why sugarcoating it.

He glances around. “I am really dead?”

“Yes.”

“And I don’t have to go back?”

“No.”

“Oh thank god!”

His suffering has come to an end: He fades quickly and you gently lead him onward. You remain for a while, standing next to the soldier’s now lifeless body. Three more men die in the facility in the next few minutes. Thousands more in a confrontation not far away. Millions worldwide. You are busy these days. More than usual.

You stretch out, easing souls out of their mortal bodies and help them to move on, freeing them from pain, illness, injuries or their due to their old ages failing bodies. You sooth and comfort the distressed, welcome the willing in your arms and wait patiently at the side of the stubborn ones.

One and a half hours pass before two prisoners come to get their dead comrade. Both are malnourished and exhausted. You will have to get them soon. Alan Turner and Tom Walker. Two names amongst uncounted others.

Sarah Morgenstern. Levy Liebermann. Erich Müller. Samuel Wilkins. Yuri Popov. Karol Figurski. Elias Blumenthal. Nick Whitaker… And so many more just in this small part of Europe.

You nod and start walking towards the cell tract. There will be three more men for you to take in a couple of minutes. The cages where the prisoners are held in are small and crowded. It’s oddly silent here, only quiet whispers, dry sobs and one murmured prayer are heard. You kneel down next to Gerard Richelieu when he takes his last breath. His soul is eager to leave this world behind, as are the two others you take. You can’t blame them.

Then you feel another tug. You follow it upwards, gliding through ceilings and walls until you arrive in a dim room. It’s a lab you register. A man is tied down on a metal table, murmuring incoherent things.

You step next to him. His face is pale, cold sweat covers his skin while his body is burning through a high fever. You reach for his chest. His heartbeat is too fast, fluttering like a wounded butterfly.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you say quietly.

His eyes snap open, wide and bloodshot and he frantically starts tugging at his shackles. “No. Stop. Please stop!” he pleads with a hoarse voice. You grab his hand and give a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s okay.”

Pale blue eyes stare at you. “You are not Zola,” he breathes. You shake your head. “Then…” he coughs. An ugly and wet sound. You wait until he has calmed down again. “I’m… am I dead?”

“You are close, but not yet dead. No.”

He takes a deep breath, coughs again. “Go away. I won’t die,” he says, voice thin but determined. “I can’t... I promised.” Exhaustion takes over him and his eyes fall shut. “Go away.”

You let go of his hand and retreat to a dark corner. You won’t leave him. He is suffering and his body will shut down soon. So you wait in the shadows. There is an accident in the weapons factory downstairs which takes the life of two guards and six prisoners.  A couple of miles away about one hundred fifty soldiers lose theirs in a skirmish. Farther away in a small village a newborn baby dies of asphyxiation when the umbilical cord twines around her neck during birth. In china an old lady drinks her last sip of tea before she falls into a sleep she won’t wake up from again. In a Brazilian city a gang war claims the life of thirty men, women and children. You take care of all of them all while you wait in the corner.

Soon a small man with round glasses enters the room. Unaware of your presence, he hums, busying himself with his paperwork and compares some notes, scribbles down some more and corrects an equation before he turns towards the soldier on his metal table.

“Good day, Sergeant,” he greets him with a thick German accent. “I have great news; the new prototype is ready to test!”

You drift closer when the man pulls out a case out of his jacket. It contains about a dozen vials. The man, Zola, starts injecting the contents into James Buchanan Barnes’ blood system.

The soldier tries to stay silent. He bites his lips until they bleed and you feel his heartbeat getting even faster. He can’t suppress a cry when Zola injects the ninth vial.His body starts twitching and writhing and his voice breaks. He's hurting.

You step closer, stop next to the table and reach out for the poor man’s soul.

“No.” You freeze. James Buchanan Barnes’ eyes stare directly into yours. “Stop,” he grits out. Zola pats his head. “This is an important step, boy. You are doing great.” Barnes ignores him, his eyes still set on you, daring you to touch him. You pull your hand back and nod. He has still energy in him. Enough to fight. You can’t deny him this.

You retreat to your corner and watch. Barnes loses consciousness after Zola gives him the last dose, his body still switching and his temperature rises even higher. Zola watches Barnes’ reactions and writes everything down, still humming happily. He leaves some time later after he made sure that Barnes is still alive.

You wait, guiding countless souls into the _Beyond_ while watching Barnes’ body trying to recover from the trauma dealt to it. A few hours pass before he wakes up again. His breathing is shallow and he has no energy left to tug at his shackles. You reclaim your spot beside him. His skin seems grey and he has dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Why are you still here. I told you to go,” his voice is quiet and raw. He opens his eyes. You can’t help but feel a pang of amazement when you see the intensity of his stare. The man is literally lying on his deathbed, he suffers and has experienced inhuman agony and sorrow. Yet here he is, will unbroken and too stubborn to admit that he is dying.

You smile and he frowns in response. “Don’t you… Don’t you have things to do?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m not... one of them. Go away.”

“No.”

He watches you with big, bloodshot eyes as you pull a chair over and sit down next to the metal table.

A frustrated sigh escapes him, but suddenly he grins. “Well, while you are here you are not with Steve. That’s a win.”

Steve. Steven Grant Rogers. You know him: You almost took him with you a couple of times. A stubborn young man, just like his friend in front of you.

“And,” he adds, “you better tell your reaper pals to keep their hands off of him, too.”

“There are no others.”

“But…” he shakes his head and seems to regret it instantly. He groans and closes his eyes, face pulled into a grimace.

“There is just me,” you tell him softly, brushing a hand over his burning forehead.

He opens his eyes again to glare at you. “Stop touching me.”

You do as you were told and rest your hands in your lap.

“You think of me as a reaper. You think I am many. But there is only me. There is only Death. And I am everywhere. But don’t you worry. Your friend is safe from me at the moment.”

His body relaxes a fraction. “Good. Good… But I am not safe from you, aren’t I? You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Wouldn’t be lurking in the shadows waiting for the right moment to get me.” Resignation crept into his voice. “Is my time up?”

You can’t help but feel amused. Humans and their strange concept of life and death.

He continues to talk before you can answer his question. “This is not fair. I… There is still so much to do, so much to see… I don’t want to die. I can’t leave Steve. He wouldn’t… He needs me! He can’t pay the rent without my share! His medicine! He will die if they kick him out of the apartment! And my family! My family needs me! My time can’t be up! I need more time, please. Give me more time! Two years. One! I’m okay with one year! I don’t ask for more, please, I can’t die here!”

His heart rate spikes and his breathing quickens. You wait until he calmed down a bit. “Your fate isn’t set in stone, James Buchanan Barnes. Neither is your time of death.”

He stares at you, tears in his bloodshot eyes. He looks so young and vulnerable.

“I won’t die here?”

“I’ll be here if you need me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“My apologies.”

He stares at you, waits for you to elaborate. But you just smile back at him. Eventually he relaxes again and closes his eyes. Silence settles between the both of you. It’s a strangely peaceful moment within all the violence and suffering around you.

Barnes voice is small when he speaks up again. “Why do you look like this?.”

You look down at the form you have currently taken: A young woman with dark skin and elegant hands wearing a pastel pink dress.

“I never pictured Death as a pretty dame, y’know.”

“James Buchanan Barnes, are you flirting with Death?”

His eyes snap open. He looks horrified. “No! I… I just…”

You chuckle and ask: “You thought of me as a tall hooded figure with skeleton hands, a grinning skull and a scythe, didn’t you?” His expression becomes wary. “Because many people do. I can change into this form if it makes you feel better.”

True to your word, your body begins to shift. Your skin and flesh disappear, leaving only a skeleton, and the pink dress turns into a black robe. You reach behind your head and pull the hood over your naked skull. “Better?”

Barnes licks his dry lips. He is dehydrated. “The scythe is missing.”

You bow down. “My bad.” When you get up again you have a large scythe in your left hand. The metal is sharp and pointy.

“I… have to admit that I liked your former appearance better.”

Within a heartbeat you change back into the dark skinned woman. “Most people prefer a friendly face over a grim reaper.”

“Most?”

“There are exceptions. There are always exceptions.”

His laughter turns almost instantly into coughing. You wait patiently until he recovers. “You should sleep.”

“What, so you can take me when I can’t fight back?” He glares at you, but there is no fire in his eyes. Only exhaustion.

“I’ll be here if you need me,” you tell him. He huffs but soon his eyes fall shut. His sleep is light and restless, but his body slowly recovers from the torture he was put through. You decide to leave as soon as it becomes clear that you aren’t needed anymore, knowing that you will probably see him again way too soon. You hope otherwise, though.

The world calls you. So many souls to guide into the beyond… Same old, same old. You change into a crow and make your way towards the north while collection thousands, millions of souls.

 

 

Later, Bucky wakes up alone. He remembers you, but he is not sure… Was it real? Were you real? Or just a figment of his imagination? A fever induced hallucination? He did talk to you… to someone. But who did he talk to? What did he say? He can’t trust his own mind anymore.

He recites his name, his service number. Things he knows by heart. Things that are real, familiar. Something that can’t be taken from him.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th. Born March 10th 1917. Service number: 32557038.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Dorctor Arnim Zola visits him again. More than once. James tries to ignore him. Tries to ignore the needles and tests. It is hard.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Until his friend Steven Grant Rogers aka Captain America finds and rescues him from the lab.

 

 

You see them when the imprisoned soldiers start revolting. Many people die on both sides. But neither James nor his best friend. They come not even close to dying, which is why neither of them sees you next to a fatally wounded scientist when they run past you.

Smiling, you embrace the dying man’s soul. 

You are death. The living are not your business.


	2. Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't find a good song for this chapter, but I made a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/l5zfcl7b4fhep88z2s1cubqnp/playlist/33fBjV2kC8DUrDsbGSMIlb?si=2vSW2nxGR8W7xKTo6t6UjA) for this fic so have that instead!

The second time James Buchanan Barnes talks to you he sits in a field hospital somewhere in Europe. A nurse is stitching him up; he was shot on a mission earlier, nothing serious though, just a flesh wound. This time you aren’t here for him, but for that poor bastard Terry Walker who was unlucky enough to get shot into his gut. His death is slow and painful. He clings to life, too stubborn to let go just yet. You sit next to him and wait for him to accept his faith, ignoring the busy nurses and doctors running around you.

Terry Walker is a lost cause, and the staff knows it. They spare him pitying glances when passing his bed but none of them stops. Too many other injured to take care of.  If a miracle isn’t about to happen, you will have to take five more men with you.

Terry groans. His skin is covered in cold sweat in his eyes are glazed with pain. You reach out for him, gingerly, but he flinches away from your touch once again.

“Leave him alone.” A shadow falls over you.

You look up and meet a familiar though grim face. “He is dying,” you tell him.

Barnes’ face darkens even more. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. There is anger in his voice. Sorrow and fear. Resignation. “Why do you kill all those people?”

You take a moment to really look at him. Besides the dark shadows clinging under his eyes he looks better than the last time you two talked. He put on some weight, mostly muscle mass and his body is healthier than ever, except for some scratches, bruises and the wound where the bullet grazed his ribs. His mind though… You can tell that he is troubled.

All the terror he experienced, the horrors he lived through. The nightmares he witnessed… He searches for someone to blame, lashing out at the best opportunity he has. You understand.

“I do not kill anyone,” you say eventually, turning your attention back to Terry Walker. The poor man’s skin slowly turns into an unhealthy shade of white and grey. His fingers twitch and he murmurs incoherent things.

You grab his his hand and squeeze it gently. He squeezes back, clinging to your touch like a drowning man to a piece of wood.

You can feel Barnes shift behind you. “But all those soldiers… The women and children, they die because of you. It’s all your fault!”

“I do not kill anyone,” you say again. “I do not shoot a gun. I do not wield a knife. I do not cause sickness. I did not guide your arm when you shot Friedrich Helmhauser today.” You look up again. Barnes’ face is pale and looks like set in stone. “People kill people. Sickness kills people. Time kills people. But I am neither. I am the one to guide the souls of the dead onwards. I embrace their souls when time, pain, sickness or cruelty becomes too much to bear. I am mercy, I am solace. I am Death.”

Terry lets out a pained whine and you turn back to him. “His time runs out, but he won’t let me take him just yet.”

Barnes steps closer. You can almost feel his inner turmoil. “He suffers.”

“Yes.”

“Is there... anything we can do?”

“He is not ready to let go yet. Sit down. Talk to him. He is alone and afraid. Company will help.”

Barnes hesitates, but does as you told him. He pulls a chair over to the bed and sits down across of you.

“What… What’s his name?”

“Terry Phillip Walker.” Age 22, engaged to Felicity Thomasons shortly before he got drafted. An older sister, Annabeth, who died last year from the flu. A younger brother, Denny, safe at home since he was deemed unfit because of his severe myopia. Both parents worrying about their older son every day. They won’t take his death easy.

Barnes stares at his comrade, a little lost, until he pulls himself together and grabs Terry’s free hand. “He pal, don’t worry, you’re not alone. It’ll be alright. It’ll be alright.”

James Buchanan Barnes talks to Terry Phillip Walker until he draws his last breath and you free him from his suffering.

“Terry was at peace in the end,” you tell Barnes after you led Terry into the Beyond. “He thanked you.”

Barnes doesn’t say anything. He just takes a shaky breath and stares at the ceiling, eyes misty.

“Is it always like this?” he asks after a while.

“No.” Each death is unique. “He struggled with letting go; He wasn’t ready to leave his life behind already.”

“Of course he wasn’t.” Barnes sounds tired. A tear rolls over his cheek. He wipes it away with an angry gesture. “Nobody here is.”

A nurse noticed what happens and comes to take care of Terry’s body. She looks tired. Barnes gets up and steps aside to give her the space she needs to work. He stays until the nurse sends him away.

“Nobody ever is,” he says after he left the building. “How could anyone be ready for death? Nobody ever is,” he repeats.

You followed him, without being sure why you are still here. You took four dying souls with you. The fifth is still fighting. You will have to come back for him later. Maybe in a couple of hours. Maybe in fifty years.

“That’s not true.” You tell him.

He turns to you, obviously surprised that you are still with him. “Excuse me?”

“You said nobody is ever ready for death. That is not true. There are many souls waiting for the moment I come to get them. They welcome me with open arms.” You stop next to him.

The both of you arrived at the barracks. It has been a while since Barnes and his friends had a solid roof over their heads and you guess that they won’t be spending much time here. War is a busy business. “I don’t want to say everyone I come to help expected to die or accepts it. But many people are ready for me when I come for them.”

“If they are not ready, if they don’t accept death, why can’t you leave them here?” he asks.

You wait for a group of soldiers to pass you - none of them notices you - before you answer: ”I can’t. Their bodies are either dead or dying. Damaged beyond repair or too sick to function anymore. A dead body can’t house a soul. And a soul without a body…” You shrug. “It is my duty to guide the dead into the Beyond.”

“So you mean what you said earlier. That you don’t kill people.”

“Yes.”

His eyes stare into yours. You return his gaze until he has to look away. He clears his throat and starts walking again. “Why are you following me?”

“We are having a conversation, or am I mistaken?”

“No. Yes. That’s not what I meant.” A sigh. “I keep seeing you. On the battlefield. In the hospitals. Everywhere. Why do I keep seeing you?”

“Interesting. Usually people don’t notice me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know, James. The few who know of my presence prefer to ignore me until they forget that I am around. Why do you want to keep seeing me?”

You can see the muscles of his back tense. “I don’t want to see you. You just appear everywhere.”

“You don’t want to see me yet you actively sought me out and accosted me.”

He doesn’t answer until we reach a tiny room filled with a handful of cots and two or three chairs. None of the cots is being used at the moment. Groaning, Barnes sits down on a bed in the corner. A few moments pass before he speaks up again. “At first I thought I was hallucinating, but…” He pauses. “You look… different. Everytime I see you. At first I wasn’t sure I actually saw you. Back in… Back when I was a prisoner you visited me, didn’t you?”

You nod.

“I barely remember. You disappeared and when Steve came and got me out… Everything was in a hurry but I’m sure I saw you. And I kept seeing you. I still do. You look different, one day you are an old man, the next moment I see you you are a kid. And when I turn around you are not even a human anymore but a crow. And yet I always know it’s you.”

You look down at yourself. In this very moment you look like a young man in uniform. “Human instincts are powerful,” you say.

“I could never tell what it was, but… I think it’s in your eyes,” he says with a shrug. 

“James, are you flirting again?”

He splutters for a moment. “I am not. Flirting.”

You change into the female body he saw you first as and bat your eyelashes at him.

“Stop it.”

You do as asked and change back into the body of the young soldier. You know it wouldn’t matter what kind of human Body you choose if James really wanted to flirt with you, but you couldn’t resist the gibe.

His blush fades quickly. “I mean it. It’s in your eyes. I can’t tell what exactly it is, but… Even though you look like a human, or crow or whatever, your eyes tell the truth. This is how I know that you are… real. Or at least not an hallucination.”

Before you can find a reply to this the door opens.You are confused for a second when you see the now big Steven Grant Rogers. The last time you saw him he was small, sickly and at the verge of dying. But oh well, humans change fast and you can never tell with them. Steven is not only big now, but as healthy as a human being can be. You won’t have to come for him because of pneumonia anymore, but most likely because of a bullet now.

“Bucky, there you are! I thought you were in the hospital, but I couldn’t find you there. A nurse said you left.”

James has straightened up the second the door opened. He relaxes a bit when he see it’s his friend, but there is still tension in him. “I am okay. All stitched up again.”

Steven smiles warmly, hiding the worry in his eyes well. “I’m glad to hear that, pal. Phillips wants your report as soon as you are fit.”

James throws a quick glance at you. “I’m coming.”

You smile at him when he walks past you. A moment later the door falls shut and you are alone in the room. You linger for another heartbeat or two before you make your way back into the hospital. It looks like the fifth soldier requires your assistance sooner than later after all.

The two of you keep seeing each other. Sometimes only glimpses, other times you share a glance, but he doesn’t approach you again. You keep to yourself as well. The living are not your business after all.


	3. The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'The Fall' or 'ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ Super Fun Snow Times With Borky'*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short but important chapter. 
> 
> Chapter-Song: [Not Ready to Say Goodbye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_3Mc7Pxe3SA) by Leah Nobel.

You are in the train with them. You are there when it happens: You stand behind Steven Grant Rogers and observe how he desperately tries to grab his best friend’s hand. You watch how he fails and how James falls. You linger only for a heartbeat as something dies within Steven Grant Rogers. Something that belongs to him and only him, something that you can’t take from him.

You are with James the second his torn body comes to an halt in a snowdrift. He is not dead yet, but close. Very close. He lost an arm on his fall down the cliff. Blood is seeping into the snow, coloring it bright red. He also suffers from various internal injuries and broken bones.

The cold will numb the pain and help with his bleeding. But in your opinion this is no mercy. His death will be slow and very painful if nobody finds him soon. And knowing him he will drag the whole process out with sheer stubbornness. He is a fighter and he won’t let you take him easily.

He regains conscious sooner than you had anticipated. Pained screams escape him when he moves, so he stops but he can’t stop screaming until he blacks out again. He doesn’t wake up for a long while. When he does he doesn’t scream. He blinks, once, twice, eyes unfocused, expression confused. It takes him a lot of his strength to turn his head. He furrows his brows when he sees you.

“Hello, James,” you say.

He doesn’t answer right away. Blinking again, he licks his dry lips. “Mo,” he eventually says. His voice is soft and raspy.

You don’t know who Mo is, but if  that is the person he needs in this moment you will be them for him. “I am here.”

He bares his bloody teeth at you. It looks more like a grimace than a smile but you don’t mind. The fact that he can smile in this situation… “I can see that. What… happened?”

You sit down next to him, not too close and in a position where he can comfortably see you. “You fell from the train.”

“The train? I don’t remember… we already attacked it?” He tries to sit up again but falls back down when he wants to use his left arm to brace himself. He looks down at himself in horror.

“Oh. Oh dammit.” For a moment he looks like he will faint again; his face becomes dangerously pale, with a tint of green. But he stays awake. He turns his head away from the gruesome sight that is the stump where his arm should be. “Where is Steve. Is he okay? Tell me that he is okay!”

You lean forward and brush away a strand of hair that has fallen into his eyes. He doesn’t protest your touch. “He is alive.” You don’t tell him that Steve was far from okay when you left him.

A sigh leaves James’ chest. “Good. Good…”

You can feel his life seeping from his various wounds. The cold reduces his blood loss but it it’s also killing him slowly, sucking all his warmth from him.

“I know… that this is bad. But don’t… don’t you dare taking me.”

“I will be here if you need me.”

He grins, baring his bloody teeth. “Fuck you, Mo.”

Mo. there is this name again. But he knows who you are, he isn’t seeing a person, only you and he addressed _you_ with this name. . “You call me Mo.”

“Yeah.” He coughs. “Don’t wanna call you Death… Or Reaper. So Mo it is. Short for… short for Mortem.”

“You do realize that Mortem is just another word for Death.”

“Yeah. But Mo could be short for… for, I don’t know. Mortimer. Moira maybe? Sounds more… _human_ , you know?”

You chuckle. “I am not human. But I understand the need of humans to humanize things that are strange and inconceivable for them.”

He grins again, it’s a genuine grin, but small and exhausted. “Fuck you, Mo.”

You scoot closer to him, but he glares at you with more fire that you usually expect from a person in his situation. The blood in his skin is already frozen. It is a stark contrast to his pale skin. There is snow in his hair now too, and ice crystals in his lashes.

He falls silent. So do you; he doesn’t have the need for conversation and you respect that. He has difficulties staying awake. Once he loses conscious and you almost have to take him. But he fights his way back to conscious, back to life. And he clings to it.

“I can’t… give up,” he tells you through chattering teeth. “Steve will… come for me.”

“James. He saw you fall into the abyss. He thinks you are dead.”

“You… You don’t know that. And even… if he did… He will come for me…. He will come.”

You take his cold hand into yours and squeeze it. He squeezes back, or at least he tries to. All he can do is twitch with his fingers.

“He has to come… He has to… I need to tell him… He needs to know…” he falls silent, but you can feel the pain laced with warm feelings in his heart. “Don’t you…. Don’t you have better… things to do?” he asks eventually.

“No. Not right now.”

He falls asleep a moment later.

One and a half hours after James Buchanan Barnes fell from the train he is found by a group of soldiers. He is delirious and doesn’t remember what happened, his words are not coherent. The soldiers take care of him as good as they can in his situation. And they take him with them on a makeshift stretcher.

You follow them into their camp. A doctor and a bunch of nurses look over him. There are no heavily injured people around so they can direct their energy and concentration on their new patient.

They do everything they can in order to save him. And they succeed. After two days he has a fever and still suffers from various injuries. But he will survive them if nothing interferes with his recovery.

You step next to his bed. He is awake. Somewhat. His eyes are open but clouded and unfocused.

“I’ll leave now, James. I hope we won’t see each other anytime soon,” you say and touch his hand. His reaction is fast: A moment later his fingers are wrapped around yours. His eyes are on you now. “Stay.”

You shake your hand and free your hand from his. “I can’t. You don’t need me anymore. I’m glad about that.”

“Mo…” his voice is pleading.

You lean over and kiss his forehead. “Don’t make me come for you too soon, James.”

He shudders. With a last glance at him you leave. There are people you have to take care of. James is not in immediate danger of dying anymore and actually on his way to recovery.

He is alive. And the living are not your business.

 

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback are always appreciated!
> 
> (Pssst, come talk to me on [tumblr](https://merbird.tumblr.com/))
> 
> ((thank you [melonshino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonshino/pseuds/melonshino) for this amazing summary of chapter 3 ilu))
> 
> Edit: OMG GUYS THERE IS FANART NOW!  
> It was made by the wonderful and talented [thathomestuck](https://thathomestuck.tumblr.com/) go visit her and show her all the love she deserves!


	4. Prisoners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter: [Elastic Heart](https://gracieandrachel.bandcamp.com/track/elastic-heart) by Gracie and Rachel
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of suicide, violence and implied torture

There is a critical moment when the plane crashes through the ice. You are next to Steven Grant Rogers, reaching out for his soul when it gets knocked out of his body by the wall of icy water hitting him. But you can’t get a hold on him. He slips through your fingers back into his body, anchoring itself. 

You can’t deny that you are surprised. The plane sinks deeper into the ice. Cold water floods the cabin, engulfing the unconscious man. You stand next to him, a hand on his shoulder, and wait for his body to freeze to death, to drown. To die. 

Rogers doesn’t wake up again. He is now completely submerged in icy water. His breathing and heartbeat slow down, stop. But he still refuses to die; his soul is nestled safely deep within him.

You leave when it becomes clear that he doesn’t need you. Not yet at least. 

  
  


The war officially ends about two months later, on May 8th 1945. The dying and suffering of the people doesn’t. You witness countless tragedies and take care of the poor souls who don’t survive them. 

You can’t say that you get surprised easily. Having been around mankind since its very beginnings, you have seen a lot of things already. But the situation you meet Barnes in again leaves you… bewildered. 

He is not the one at the edge of death, much to your relief, but the one almost killing the man you came here for. Somehow Barnes managed to subdue a (formerly) armed soldier, even with only one arm to work with, and has the man in a chokehold, cutting of his air supply.

Before either of you can say anything more men rush in. Screams and angry shouting fills the tiny room. They are able to pry James away from his victim and pin him down on the ground. He fights back against three men, ignoring their angry yelling. His eyes are set on you. There is fear and desperation. And a glimmer of hope when he cries out to you: “Tell me that you didn’t touch him! Tell me that he is alive!”

You silently watch as the soldiers drag him away, out of the cell. His voice echoes through the hallway. He is screaming your name, demanding, pleading for an answer...

You stay in the cell. Two soldiers try to help their fallen comrade but to no avail. You kneel down next to him and embrace his soul when he takes his last, gurgling breath. He is in peace when he passes over, you make sure of that.

It’s not the first time someone ‘summoned’ you by killing another human being. But you are… surprised that James went to such an extreme. 

You watch how the soldiers carry their dead comrade out of the room, hesitant to leave. The Living are not your business. You should  _ leave. _ But you saw the desperation in James’ eyes, could feel it in his heart, almost suffocating the tiny spark of hope in his heart. 

You make a decision: You might not be able to help James in this situation, but you can give him assurance. Hope.

That is your job after all, right? Give solace to the desperate.

It takes you a while before you find him again. The facility is big and you have no dying soul to guide your way. Eventually you reach him, though. He is lying on a table, tied down with straps around his wrist, legs and chest. His skin is covered in fresh cuts and bruises and his breathing is shallow. 

His eyes are closed; he doesn’t notice you when you enter the room. 

You bend down and bring your lips close to his ear. “James.”

His fingers twitch in response..

“I was there. He survived.”

His split lip starts bleeding again as he slowly starts grinning. He doesn’t say anything but you can feel his relief pouring from his heart. A chuckle leaves his chest, turning into an almost maniac giggle.

“He is alive,” he whispers. “Of course he is. Too stubborn to die.” A tear slips from the corner of his eye. “Is he alright?”

You weigh your words carefully. “He is safe for the moment.”

That isn’t a lie. Steven Grant Rogers, because of course he was the person James asked about, didn’t die when he crashed with the plane. He didn’t die in the icy waters. You don’t know if there are people searching for him and for how long he will be able to survive under the dire circumstances he maneuvered himself into, but for the moment, he is (somewhat) safe.

“Good. Good.” The giggling has stopped, has turned into a short series of dry sobs. He is calm again now, if only on the outside. 

“They said that the war is over. That we won.”

Can anyone win a war? “Yes, the war is over.”

“That’s good. Steve won’t have to fight anymore then. They should pin a medal onto his chest so he can hit it off with Peggy and drive into the sunset with her.”

You say nothing. 

“He won’t come to get me,” he says eventually. His voice is quiet now. Exhausted. “He thinks I’m dead. He doesn’t know that I am… that I am here.”

“No. He doesn’t know.”

He nods once. 

“I am sorry.”

“They don’t ask me questions. Not yet. I don’t know what they want from me, but I won’t give it to them.” He finally opens his eye and looks at you. There is a fire in him, burning defiance and the strong will to live. “They won’t be able to keep me here.”

“I really hope so.”. 

“You will leave me,” he realizes. “You won’t help me either.”

“No. I can’t. You are not dead yet, and I am glad about that, but the living are not my business.”

You can’t help him. There are rules and those rules exist for a reason. Bad things happen if you interfere with the plane of the living.

He nods again. His determination is still unbroken. “Thank you for telling me, though. About Steve.”

“Of course. Take care, James.” You give his hand a last squeeze before you leave. 

You actually feel… regret. But you shake your head to get rid of that feeling.

You are Death.

The living are not your business. 

  
  


You have to visit the facility again after you left James. Not for him, though, but for two young men. Prisoners, like James. The first one, Jonathan Hall, dies about three weeks after your meeting with James. His death is slow and very painful. You stand next to him while people in white lab coats cut him open, inject him with strange fluids, torture him. 

His soul that has become dull from all the pain and suffering glows with relief when you can finally free it from his body. He clings to you, a desperate embrace seeking comfort. You give it to him, taking him gently into your arms while you hum the lullaby his mother always sang to him when he was still a child not so long ago. He goes into the Beyond willingly. 

The other young man’s name is Richard Polanski. He lives through the same horrors as Jonathan did. He suffers until he decides to take the only escape he can see: One night he hangs himself in his cell with his bed sheet. 

You can feel his triumph when you take him, his relief but also his fear. He is afraid that you would send him to hell for killing himself. You calm him down, give him comfort until he is ready to pass over. 

You stay long enough to see how the guards take away all the blankets and sheets from the other prisoners. And you catch a glimpse of James. He is quiet, only nods at you when he notices you. But you can feel the rage in him. Rage and fear and hate and determination.

You leave when the guards enter his cell to take away his blanket and search for hidden weapons. 

You are death.

He is alive.

And the living are not your business. 

  
  


You meet him again about a month later. He is kneeling next to a young man who just took his last breath. You guide his soul into the Beyond and watch how James searches through the now dead man’s pockets. 

“Hey, Mo,” he greets you without looking up.

“James,” you say. “What are you doing?”

“Escaping,” is the curt answer. He is now trying to strip the uniform from the body. It’s not easy for him with only one hand. 

You notice fresh bruises and barely healed cuts on his skin: He is bearing the same marks as Jonathan Hall and Richard Polanski. Not as severe but still bad enough.

You make a decision and kneel down next to James and help him undressing the dead soldier. 

James stops for a second to look at you. “What are  _ you _ doing?”

“Helping you.”

“But…”

“Don’t say anything or I will remember where I put my mind.”

He stares for a second longer. He looks like he wants to say something but then he thinks the better of it and continues to undress the dead soldier. 

“What is your plan?”

“Take his clothes and leave unobtrusively.”

You see a hundred ways how this plan can go horribly wrong, but you are sure so does he. 

“Alright. Hurry up, then.”

He gives you a tired, but cheeky smile when he strips out of his prisoner’s rags. “You know, usually I ask pretty people out for a date or two before I undress in front of them.”

You roll your eyes. “Why James, now you  _ are _ flirting with death.”

He shrugs. “Literally. There is a good chance that I get shot in the next minutes,”

You help him put on the uniform. It’s a size too small and the sleeve of his left arms dangles empty. You tuck it into his belt to prevent it from flapping around.

He considers the rifle lying next to the dead soldier, but he takes the pistol instead. 

“I hope you know the way out of here,” you say.

Another shrug. “Kind off? I know the way to the labs and I know that the exit is not far from there.”

“James. I admire your optimism.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily call it optimism,” he replies with a lopsided grin. Then his smile fades and he adds quietly “It’s more like desperation.”

“I hope you succeed,” you tell him when he is ready to leave.

“Me too.” No smile this time.

He hesitates for a moment, you can feel his nervousness and fear, but then he leaves to make his way out of the facility.

You stand next to the dead soldier on the ground an watch him walk away from you. There is the urge to follow him, to help him and make sure he makes it out okay. But this urge unsettles you. You are not supposed to feel this. But you also can’t bring yourself to actually leave the facility. So you stay next to the dead body waiting for… something.

You stay there for twenty minutes until a dying soul nearby calls for your attention. Within a heartbeat you are there to take care of it. Another soldier dead by Barnes hand. Bleeding out after Barnes slashed his throat with a scalpel. You pull the corpse out of sight and prop it up in a dark corner. The puddle of blood is still very visible, but considering the horrors that happen in this facility it maybe won’t attract attention too soon. 

An hour later you find yourself outside. It’s a cold day. The sky is an intense blue with no clouds in sight. It could have been a nice day if it hadn’t been for the group of soldiers. One of them dies as he loses his balance and lands head first on a stone. 

He is stunned, holds on for a moment before he accepts your guiding touch. His last thoughts are for his mother. He already lost a son in the war and her husband to a weak heart. She had been so relieved when he came back home after the war. Now that the fights were over he’d be safe, right?

She is alone now.  

After you lead the soul into the Beyond you take a look around.

Barnes is here. He made it out of the facility. But it doesn’t look good for him: He is fighting three soldiers, the fourth now lying lifeless to your feet. 

Two heartbeats later Barnes goes down. The soldiers don’t stop hurting him, though. They beat and kick him until he loses conscious. And they still don’t stop. For a moment you are afraid that they will kill him. But then they seem to remember their orders. One of them picks up their fallen comrade, the other two drag Barnes back to the facility.

It shouldn’t bother you. He is alive. This is not your business.  You can’t help him. 

Bad things happen when you interfere with the world of the living. There are  _ rules. _

You follow them anyways.  

Barnes is barely conscious; his mind is drifting between here and there. He hangs limb between the soldiers, not fighting back at all. His thoughts are muted, but you can feel the the ever present dread in his subconscious, the hot fury that is slowly being swallowed by cold desperation. 

The spark is still there. His will to fight unbroken. He wants to survive. To fight. To  _ live _ .

You don’t know what to hope for: That he won’t ever lose his will to live or that he’ll set an end to all this before his suffering becomes unbearable. 

You shove this line of thought far away and concentrate on the way back, keeping track of the directions, where the exit is (the main entrance and other options to leave the building. There aren’t many, and the main entrance is heavily guarded. As is the vicinity you realize. It was a wonder that Barnes cames that far.). 

Why are you doing this? You aren’t helping anyone. (You can’t.)

Too soon you enter a familiar hallway. The soldiers don’t bring him back into his cell but drag him into one of the testing rooms near the labs.

This is not good. 

You don’t want to follow. You don’t want to enter this room. But you do, as if you are pulled in by a string that connects you with Barnes. 

They put him on the table in the middle of the room, not only shackling his wrist and ankles but also fixating his chest and head with leather bands again. If he weren’t hurt so badly he might have had a small chance to escape the bonds. But now he is injured and barely conscious. He won’t be able to free himself.

The soldiers leave and you step closer to Barnes. His face is pale beneath the dried blood. One eye is swelling shut. You reach out to brush a strand of hair from his face, but you stop yourself before you touch him. He doesn’t like being touched without permission. 

In this moment of hesitation he opens his good eye. He stares right at your face. “Mo.” His voice is quiet and raspy.

“I’m sorry.”

“Mo…” he licks his dry lips. They started bleeding again. 

“I’m so sorry, James.”

He takes a rattling breath and winces in pain. His ribs are bruised. One or two even broken. 

There are steps outside. Coming closer. The door opens a moment later and two people in white coats enter.

“Please.” James’ eyes are pleading. He tries to move his arm and groans in frustration when the shackle keeps him down. “Mo…”

“I’m so sorry. I can’t help you, James. I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

The dread in his heart grows. “No. Please, Mo.”

You grab his hand and squeeze it once. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

The two men in white approach the table. James starts fighting against the shackles. He starts screaming. His voice echoes through the room and the hallway. Through your head. 

He screams, curses, begs, until his voice breaks and one of the men inject him with something. 

You watch as James’ movement becomes sluggish, stops. His head falls to the side and his eyes are on you, pleading silently, begging to help him. To stop them. To do  _ something _ .

You leave.

James Buchanan Barnes is amongst the living. He is none of your business. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternative chapter title: Not Your Business ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> find me on [tumblr](https://merbird.tumblr.com/). I don't post much but I'm always happy to talk with people!


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